Caretakers
The film follows two Hungarian women, who are forming opposite drives from being away from family. Every decision Zsuzsa makes is driven by her desire to return home, while Beata desperately searches for a path to legal residency in the U.S. Their lives begin to dissolve into one another, forming a silent dialogue across continents, an abstract conversation that connects them, though they have never met.
Zsuzsa’s story seems to follow a clear goal: earning money to finish building the family house to move back to. Yet, her travels become a form of escape, from her alcoholic husband, her ailing mother, and a lifetime of inherited social and emotional burdens. We witness Zsuzsa’s growing dependence on the distance that once seemed temporary. The house becomes a hollow victory, unable to contain the transformation she has undergone abroad. When her mother dies and her husband’s drinking continues, Zsuzsa faces the unsettling realization that home no longer feels like home. The arrival of her grandson, however, offers a fragile sense of renewal, a possibility that the generational cycle of struggle and resignation might finally be broken.
Beata’s story unfolds in vibrant contrast, set in Brooklyn. Her life, though equally defined by caregiving, radiates a sense of defiance. Through scenes of laughter, riding the Cyclone at Coney Island or visiting tattoo parlors with Mancika, her 98-year-old patient, the film reveals that work and intimacy merge completely. Beneath that lies a growing unease: eight years without papers and family. As political tensions rise around immigration, she embarks on a quest for finding an American husband. When her grandson visits, the exuberant reunion slowly turns melancholic, exposing the cost of her absence.
The film with heartfelt humour weaves an unseen thread of communication, where each woman’s longing mirrors the others, and their stories echo like two halves of the same unspoken confession on the shared theme of displacement.
Zsuzsa’s story seems to follow a clear goal: earning money to finish building the family house to move back to. Yet, her travels become a form of escape, from her alcoholic husband, her ailing mother, and a lifetime of inherited social and emotional burdens. We witness Zsuzsa’s growing dependence on the distance that once seemed temporary. The house becomes a hollow victory, unable to contain the transformation she has undergone abroad. When her mother dies and her husband’s drinking continues, Zsuzsa faces the unsettling realization that home no longer feels like home. The arrival of her grandson, however, offers a fragile sense of renewal, a possibility that the generational cycle of struggle and resignation might finally be broken.
Beata’s story unfolds in vibrant contrast, set in Brooklyn. Her life, though equally defined by caregiving, radiates a sense of defiance. Through scenes of laughter, riding the Cyclone at Coney Island or visiting tattoo parlors with Mancika, her 98-year-old patient, the film reveals that work and intimacy merge completely. Beneath that lies a growing unease: eight years without papers and family. As political tensions rise around immigration, she embarks on a quest for finding an American husband. When her grandson visits, the exuberant reunion slowly turns melancholic, exposing the cost of her absence.
The film with heartfelt humour weaves an unseen thread of communication, where each woman’s longing mirrors the others, and their stories echo like two halves of the same unspoken confession on the shared theme of displacement.
Kind of Adults
The moments that shape who we are are hard to pin down, but the final year of high school is a turning point. Kind of Adults begins here—when the safety of childhood slips away and the uncertainty of adulthood starts to take hold.
The film follows classmates over five years, tracing the emotional journeys of four central characters—Leo, Rose, Ákos, and Lola—as they navigate first loves, fractured friendships, and the pressure to define themselves in a shifting world. Leo and Rose’s intense, on-again, off-again relationship runs like a fault line, capturing the pain of letting go, while depression lingers beneath parties and chaotic nights. Ákos reflects on hiding his true self in school, facing both regret and clarity. Lola experiences the heartbreak of drifting from childhood friends, seeking connection first in fleeting relationships, then through bold, boundary-pushing art.
Their struggles unfold against late-night adventures, much filmed by the characters themselves. Initially living in the present, the weight of choices and adult expectations soon presses down. Their closeness offers comfort but also constrains them.
Rather than a conventional arc, the story moves in interwoven fragments, shaped by self-shot footage, observational scenes, and a sometimes emotional, sometimes minimalist score. The real drama is in what remains unspoken: a flicker of doubt, a private confession, a shared silence. Growing up rarely happens all at once—it arrives in small fragments.
Kind of Adults captures the raw, contradictory spirit of Gen Z, offering a personal glimpse into growing up when the future feels perpetually uncertain.
The film follows classmates over five years, tracing the emotional journeys of four central characters—Leo, Rose, Ákos, and Lola—as they navigate first loves, fractured friendships, and the pressure to define themselves in a shifting world. Leo and Rose’s intense, on-again, off-again relationship runs like a fault line, capturing the pain of letting go, while depression lingers beneath parties and chaotic nights. Ákos reflects on hiding his true self in school, facing both regret and clarity. Lola experiences the heartbreak of drifting from childhood friends, seeking connection first in fleeting relationships, then through bold, boundary-pushing art.
Their struggles unfold against late-night adventures, much filmed by the characters themselves. Initially living in the present, the weight of choices and adult expectations soon presses down. Their closeness offers comfort but also constrains them.
Rather than a conventional arc, the story moves in interwoven fragments, shaped by self-shot footage, observational scenes, and a sometimes emotional, sometimes minimalist score. The real drama is in what remains unspoken: a flicker of doubt, a private confession, a shared silence. Growing up rarely happens all at once—it arrives in small fragments.
Kind of Adults captures the raw, contradictory spirit of Gen Z, offering a personal glimpse into growing up when the future feels perpetually uncertain.